Definitely Guilt (or The Reason to Mend a 1940s Sorrento Music Box)
by Thefirstfewchapters
Summary: Red mends the music box and tries hard not to think about his reasons for doing so. And fails.
1. Chapter 1

**My first Blacklist fanfiction so please be kind. I haven't written anything for a number of years, but my brain needed a challenge. Lacking any really original ideas I decided to start with a scene from the show. Everything then got a little bit out of control. I honestly don't know what to think about what I eventually ended up with. **

**It is nearly finished but is quite long so I decided to post the first half. **

**I do not own The Blacklist. Although, from reading my fic, you might just get an inkling that I wish Red was mine. **

**Unbeta'd. Any and all mistakes are mine alone. I apologise for any British-isms that may slip through. **

**Definitely Guilt (or The Reason To Mend A 1940s Sorrento Music Box)**

**Part One **

They lay before him in a jumble . . . the disassembled pieces of a broken music box that needed careful attention and restoration.

He felt his mouth twist at the corners as he contemplated the small, thin screws; smaller, fragile pins; larger, heavier bolts; and the assorted mixture of tumbler wheels, cogs and ratchets. Then he sorted and arranged them all with great care and consideration. Methodically. As he dealt with all things.

After he had finished sorting them, he sat and stared at them for a long time, while he decided how to approach the campaign ahead. It was a job that couldn't be rushed and yet, he knew, it was a job that couldn't take forever. Because things were in motion and proceeding quite quickly. And he had to be sure that when he needed the music box to be ready . . . it would be ready.

He wasn't very willing to begin analysing too closely his reasons for repairing the box. Wasn't truly sure what he would find if he scratched beyond the surface of the obvious motive, which was that he knew Lizzie was going to need support and assistance to cope with all that was happening with Tom. And that he thought the music box could be used to help her.

He sighed. And unconsciously chewed the inside of his mouth.

He wasn't sure how to deal with the 'Tom Situation' in a manner that didn't somehow seem condescending or frivolous. Because, God knows, he could do both of those responses extremely well. And had, in fact, shown that side of his nature to her on more than one occasion since they first met.

But now, as things were developing, it was incredibly important to him that she did not see his response to what was brewing in that way.

He had a deep suspicion that she judged his attitude to her troubled marriage as a rather gloating, I-told-you-so one. Not without foundation, he had to admit.

But he was slowly finding, within himself, a desire to show . . . what?

To be honest, exactly what he did feel he found rather confusingly open to debate.

If asked, he would say it was guilt. With a great big capital 'G'.

Definitely guilt.

He had, after all, been so instrumental in turning her life upside down.

Demanding to 'Speak Only With Elizabeth Keen,' when making his oh-so dramatic entrance onto the stage of her life.

Getting the attention _he_ needed.

He grimaced as he thought back to the early days of his relationship with her. It had all started as something akin to a game, plotted out like a tournament level chess match. And he almost winced at the smug, self-satisfied approach he had taken back then. How she had refrained from giving him a good slap round the face he wasn't at all sure.

Probably because Sam had brought her up to be polite and well-mannered: even to arrogant, conceited criminals who showed up out of the blue and steamrollered into your life without any sort of advance invitation or adequate explanation.

But the emotional fall out had been beyond anything he'd expected. For her. And, more and more, for him.

Theorising about situations was all well and good. And he had. Before it all started. But, unfortunately, quite quickly, once things were in motion, evolving and twisting before his eyes, he had begun to realise that she did not equate to anyone he had been associating with for the past twenty years. And that she might not cope or react to events in quite the way that he had anticipated.

So much for all his advance planning.

He looked at the pieces of mechanism assembled like a regiment of metal on the table. Ordered. Sorted. Ready to be mended so that they could then be fitted together and accomplish the task he required of them.

Unfortunately, other things . . . people . . . were less . . . systematic. Less logical. Less chess piece. More . . . he grimaced once more to himself . . . human.

Once you were actually face-to-face with people you had been able to do little but speculate about for a very long time, suddenly everything changed. When you looked into their eyes and saw the bewilderment, the anguish, the pain . . . suddenly . . . it wasn't just your own personal redemption project anymore. Suddenly, it was far more than that. It was far more real and people were not quite the puppets you had imagined them to be.

Suddenly, they started getting guns pointed at them by Chinese criminals in underground bunkers, they started getting kidnapped by sociopaths who flushed human remains down the plug hole for fun, and they had guns pointed at their heads by hired mercenaries who wouldn't think twice about pulling the trigger if they didn't get what they wanted.

And, suddenly, _he_ found himself unconsciously moving across to block Wujing's aim.

Of course, he did that because his plans depended on her.

That's all.

Selfishness. That's all it had been.

But then, he had to track her down, and find her, in the Stewmaker's cabin . . .

He could remember, so clearly, as if it happened just moments ago, the relief that had surged through him as if he had been struck by lightning. When he found her.

And he had looked up into her dazed eyes as she sat helpless but, thankfully, still alive, in the wheelchair.

Had that been selfishness too?

Because it meant that he was still able to continue with his plans.

Or had it been something else?

What about 'Coming out of the box for her. Red Reddington putting someone else's life ahead of his own.' He could still hear Garrick's caustic, near-disbelief.

And, indeed, could still feel the desperation that gripped him like a vice when he had thought she would be executed in front of his eyes.

Was that still selfishness?

Or something else?

Was it his debt to Sam?

Was it responsibility?

Guilt?

What?

His head twitched from side to side as he tried to shake the ideas away. Thoughts like those were an annoyance. They really needed to be swatted and squashed like the irritating insect-like pests they were. He had no need of them.

He really needed to concentrate on the here and now, not wallow in the memory of past events.

He picked up a cog and turned it over in his hand to try and distract himself from his thoughts. He examined it for flaws and imperfections, considering the work that he needed to do to repair the piece. But all he found that happened was that it made him think all the more about the human cogs caught up in his own real life machinations.

And that one cog in particular.

He shook his head again, but it wouldn't clear. This was becoming a dangerously familiar theme. He replaced the metal cog carefully alongside its fellow pieces.

And chewed the inside of his cheek as he found himself unable to stop thinking about that one particular . . . distracting . . . human cog.

Over the last few months, he had tried to explain things to her as far as he was able, but there was so much that was unsaid or avoided, or disguised in half-truths because circumstances did not permit that he could say any more. Which created a barrier between them. He had tried to show that her pain was not something that was meaningless to him. But he wasn't sure she recognised how . . . increasingly . . . true that was.

Which was understandable.

And how could he really show how he felt? When, if truth be told, _he_ wasn't really sure how he felt any more?

He had felt a shifting in her attitude towards him since the Anslo Garrick incident, but, recently, as the situation with Tom wore her down more and more, he felt that she was forgetting what he had done that day.

Red rubbed his hands on a rag. His eyes flitting from one piece to another as he checked their layout once more; assessing them each in turn for the place they would take in the machine when it was finally reassembled.

Somehow, he needed to show her that he was capable of displaying a genuine, thoughtful understanding of another person's pain and suffering without resorting to a smug, one line, dismissive comment. He wasn't sure why that had become so important to him. But it had.

To help her in some sort of constructive, useful manner.

To show a modicum of responsibility for all the turmoil that he had caused.

Perhaps lance a little of the guilt he felt.

Show he . . . cared.

About how things were.

About her.

His mouth twisted as he thought that word through.

Cared.

A word that covered a multitude of sins. So, a very safe word to use.

Would she grasp just a fraction of that word if she came to see how much time and attention he put into repairing the music box? Wasn't it supposed to be true that actions spoke louder and so on and so forth? Maybe he wouldn't have to say anything to explain himself because his actions would speak the words he couldn't?

He wasn't usually a man lacking a word or two when the opportunity arose to speak. But this . . . with Lizzie . . . was, somehow, increasingly, a challenge to even his verbosity.

He blinked a few times, and once again decided that analysing why he couldn't speak the right words was not perhaps the wisest thing.

He was _sure_ it was guilt that weighed him down the most.

He sighed.

Definitely guilt.

And he really needed to avoid any more introspection.

So, instead, he set about cleaning the pieces. With gentle concentration. Because they were delicate and precious. Not delicate and precious because they had cost a great deal of money . . . although, indeed, they had . . but because of what he hoped they would be able to achieve when they were finally able to work again.

Lost in a blurred and seemingly unavoidable cascade of thoughts about music boxes and Lizzie and Tom and Sam and guilt and regret and . . . other emotions . . . he suddenly sensed Dembe's statuesque presence in the corner of the room. Solitary. Watchful.

Red coughed. Embarrassed to have been caught somewhat off guard. 'Yes?'

'You are seeking to help mend some things, Raymond? By mending this . . . box?'

Sometimes the man was all too startlingly direct!

Red huffed a little but then reluctantly admitted, 'Hopefully. Who knows. I'm not sure it will completely mend . . . things, as you so euphemistically refer to events.' He sighed, and tilted his head as he looked across the room. 'However, . . . I hope it may prove to be a start.'

'A start?'

'Yes. Begin to help Agent Keen overcome some . . . difficulties.' Now who was being euphemistic?

Dembe continued to watch.

Red narrowed his eyes. 'What?'

'I am curious about the connection between this box and Agent Keen.'

'Long story.' He hadn't meant to sound so abrupt, and by way of a swift apology added, 'And it's good to have a project. You really should cultivate a hobby, Dembe.'

There was a stretch of silence.

'Painting?' Reddington smiled as he suggested it. 'Interior design, perhaps?'

Dembe's silence spoke volumes.

'Ah, well. It was just a thought.'

He looked back down at the table, and picked up one of the most damaged pieces, holding it thoughtfully between grease-smeared fingers.

'This reminds me of when I was a boy, you know? Meccano sets and building model aircraft. It all required such . . . time. Precision . . . I would spend hours carefully putting all the pieces together. It was a such a wonderful hobby . . .' His voice drifted into nothingness as he contemplated the metal he held, pursing his lips in concentration. But it was clear to anyone who cared to observe, that he was no longer looking at what was there in his hand. But was, in fact, miles . . . or even years . . . away. Somewhere. Only Raymond Reddington could see.

And Dembe, ever tactful, held his silence and quietly slipped away.

Red sighed. There had been times recently when he had been drawn to thoughts of his childhood. A time when everything had seemed so fresh and clean and . . . joyfully full of promise. Sometimes, the contrast between that youthful, innocent time and the mire of his adult life was almost more than he could take.

His eyes flickered and stretched wide, before blinking hard as he drew himself back from the past. Which wasn't easy. He found, increasingly, there were moments when he wanted so much to turn back time. Set his life into rewind and become a boy again. A boy who had no knowledge of the bitterness to come and the dark road he would walk as a man. A boy for whom getting lost in the delicate intricacies of building a model aircraft was the absolute highlight of the day; a time when he could take simple joy in the completion of a project that had taken weeks of careful and loving attention.

His projects these days were usually of a far deadlier nature.

But this . . .

The music box.

Was a return to those simpler days. To those quieter, more reflective projects.

Was actually a gentle, calming past-time. And he had a sense that he would come to enjoy it for more than just the thoughts of the intended final purpose. In the same way that he enjoyed his games of solitary chess, this, too, would give him time to immerse himself in something that wasn't sinister or criminal or traitorous.

He wasn't Raymond Reddington the despised, dishonoured felon, he was simply a man absorbed in something from which he took a soul-soothing pleasure. Which he then intended to give to someone he cared for very much.

There was that word again. Cared.

Someone he felt a deep responsibility for.

Perhaps that was a better choice of words?

After all, when he had first met her, there had been an innocence about her, a freshness and cleanness that had surprised him. It had surrounded her with an aura undisturbed by the work she was involved in.

But it was a freshness and cleanness which had been steadily eroded in the weeks and months since.

Because of her connection to him.

And he hadn't considered that he would come to feel so responsible . . . to . . . care . . . quite so much as all that sparkle and bloom was tarnished and polluted.

The women he had regularly associated with, like Madeline Pratt . . . there was a good example . . . who had come to be the norm for him during the last twenty years were selfish. Egotistical. Dishonest. Career orientated. Looking to benefit from their association with him in some way. So, he had somehow come to expect Lizzie to be like that. Happy to be made famous within her profession through her connection with him. And to not really care how that happened.

Except . . .

She wasn't.

And he should have known she wouldn't be like that, because she was Sam's little girl.

But, until he met her, he had expectations smeared by the women with whom he had spent the last two decades.

Therefore, he had been unprepared.

Caught off guard.

So, now, he felt responsible and desperate to help repair some of the damage.

Which meant that what he felt had to be guilt.

Definitely guilt.

She had raised an eyebrow when she called this evening and caught him with the restoration paraphernalia scattered across his work bench.

Truthfully, it was hardly surprising. Tinkering around with gears, sprockets and cogwheels was most definitely not his normal activity when she stopped by, but he had been just a _tiny_ bit put out by her comment about part of it being the timing mechanism for an explosive device. That had really been just a little hurtfully unnecessary, if you asked him. Even if he had thought that she was probably half-joking. Did she _really _think that he would stoop so low as to build _his own_ explosive devices, for heaven's sake?

He had plenty of contacts who could be paid to do that for him should he so require.

Still, she had taken his information about Ivan with reasonably good grace.

Despite perhaps being a little peeved that he was clearly using the FBI to settle his own private scores. Again. This time with a mysterious Russian computer hacker who had stolen from his supposedly secure bank account.

Red smiled as he recalled her response to his little background story about his connection to Ivan; he really needed to stop embellishing when he didn't need to. She wasn't Madeline Pratt and he needed to remember that when he decided to go off on one of his little rambling asides. Madeline would have smiled and enjoyed the joke and said he got exactly what he deserved. And probably have asked for Ivan's contact details so she could compare notes on how best to fleece international criminals of their ill-gotten gains.

Lizzie . . . had been somewhat less impressed.

'She was not impressed with your project?'

Sometimes he really thought Dembe had some sort of unnerving psychic connection with the inside of his head!

Frowning at his bodyguard he tried very hard to impose a proper sense of employer-employee protocol.

And failed.

Dembe just stood, impervious. Waiting.

Red sighed. It appeared any authority he had with anyone this evening was sadly lacking.

'Apparently, at present, Agent Keen has other things to occupy her. So, no, she was not very impressed. In fairness, I can't say I blame her entirely at this point. In my experience, mechanical remnants and repairs are not, on the whole, particularly enticing to the feminine mind.

'Although, in my younger days, sometime around ninth grade, I do believe, a lovely young girl moved in next door.' Red looked up at Dembe and smiled. '_She_ showed a _particularly_ detailed interest in my mechanical engineering projects, as I recall. I had moved on from model building by then, and was restoring an automobile of some dubious heritage or other in a barn. A lovely, quiet, lonely barn.' His smile grew lascivious. 'She was _most_ interested in learning about engines and drive shafts and . . . other activities. Michelle Steffenberg was her name. A delightfully flexible and energetic girl . . . ' He looked up.

Dembe was merely looking at him with an bland expression.

'Sometimes,' Red grumbled, 'I really don't know why I care to share.

. *****

She had had quite an opportunity to see him working on the music box tonight. But he was sure she had been far too distracted by his revelation that he had known Ivan's whereabouts the whole time to have paid his work much attention.

Red wasn't sure if he was concerned about that or not. In fact, he had found her presence a little off-putting as he was trying to concentrate on fitting together a quite intricate set of pieces. Still, he had been quite pleased with his rather theatrical flick of the spindle to send it spinning around after announcing that they needed to take a field trip. She, on the other hand, hadn't appeared to even notice; instead, it was her mind that was clearly spinning with what he had withheld and what he had just revealed.

Red sighed. His inherent desire to show off was not always such a good idea. Lizzie hadn't been pleased at all that he had been keeping her team in the dark about where Ivan was, and clearly thought he had been indulging in a little one-upmanship on the FBI. Which, well, _truthfully_ . . . he had been doing. He really, _really _needed to stop doing that. It wasn't helping his cause with Lizzie. Even if it _was _fun.

He could just imagine Donald's reaction when he found out.

He flicked the second spindle he had finished that evening and watched as the light ricocheted off it in spears of gold. And wondered precisely what 'cause with Lizzie' he was thinking about.

He was, after all, engaged in a project that would, he hoped, merely help her deal with the pain that Tom was going to inflict sometime soon. It would remind her of Sam and the protection and love he had once offered to her. And show her that he, Red, understood her pain and had thoughtfully tried to find a way to help her cope.

That was . . . caring. Wasn't it?

Showing a responsibility for someone.

It was a project that would give her a connection to the past that Red had ripped from her in a hospital room.

He grimaced.

He owed it to Lizzie, and to Sam, to be there when she needed him. Which she was going to . . . soon.

Just the mere thought of Sam was enough to make him pause and swallow hard.

Shadowed echoes of the desperate sounds of the last moments of his friend's life disturbed the previously peaceful resonance of the room.

He would never shed the guilt of that. No matter how he justified what he had done. It would remain with him forever like a disease lying dormant in his bloodstream.

He had robbed Lizzie of her father.

Was he allowed to . . . care . . . for her after that?

When just listening to her even mention Sam's name dragged across his conscience like a ragged shard of glass.

He had a sense that his personal pot boiler of swirling emotions was getting a little close to overflowing. No matter how he tried to suppress it.

Which was unsettling.

And dangerous.

Taking a steadying, deep breath, he tried to get back to the task in hand.

At least all this business with Ivan appeared to be distracting Lizzie from events on the home front, which was a good thing. She hadn't seemed nearly so fraught this evening. Except with him. Which was also a means to distract her from The Tom Thing

'Is it working yet?'

Honestly! Dembe's ability to silently appear in a room was . . . unnerving. Even if it was part of the reason he was so good at his job and partly why Red valued him so highly.

'In what sense do you mean 'working'? It _is_ coming together quite nicely, I have to say.' He found himself looking down proudly at the wood which he had polished to within an inch of its life. And the gleaming metal mechanism that was beginning to show a passing resemblance to what the inside of a music box ought to look like.

Still, he had to admit, 'If you mean: is it working as in finished-and-operating-as-it-was-intended-to? Then, no, it isn't. Not quite.' He paused. 'Therefore, I suppose, if you mean: is it working as in is-it-now-assisting-Agent-Keen-with-her-emotional . . . issues? Then, well, . . . no, it isn't. We haven't quite reached that point yet.'

'Ah. So, it is not working at all then?'

Red gave Dembe what he hoped was a severe glare. 'At this moment in time? _Actually_ working? No. Not as such. But it will.'

He became aware that Dembe was eyeing the array of pieces on the work bench somewhat dubiously.

'Trust me. If I can strip down a Colt .45 1911 and reassemble it in less than two minutes, I can put this back together again in proper working order.'

Silence.

Red raised an eyebrow in his bodyguard's direction. 'Yes?'

'This would appear to be taking you somewhat longer than two minutes.'

'Dembe . . . I really will have to fire you if you don't go and find a hobby and get out of my . . .'

He could sense the big man's smirk from across the room.

'I wasn't going to say hair. I was going to say space.'

He looked up and dared Dembe to argue. But he had gone already, leaving behind only a deep, resonant chuckle in the place where he had been.

After a moment, Red smiled to himself and settled back to work.

Once again, she had been and gone, casting barely a cursory eye over what he was doing, because this time she was far too concerned with finding out more about 'Jolene Parker'. He had managed to slip past her questions without lying, but he had frustrated and angered her. Again.

She was losing patience with his side-steps and he wasn't sure how much longer she would keep going without grasping hold of the nearest heavy object and taking out her considerable annoyance and frustration by beating him over the head with it. And, in truth, he wouldn't blame her. The problem was that he had very little to tell her that she didn't already know.

So, off she'd stormed. Past a quietly watching Dembe.

He fitted another cog together and tried to settle his thoughts. Tilting his head unconsciously as he did so.

'What do you think?' he asked, seeking a glimmer of approval, because he was nothing if not a little proud and vain.

There was a considered silence.

'It would appear that you have found some pieces that fit together correctly,' Dembe dead-panned.

'Yes. Thank you. I thought maybe you could show a _little_ more appreciation for the artistry of my extremely careful reconstruction.'

There was a pause.

Then, 'It is a very impressive thing you have achieved so far, Raymond. To rebuild this machine from the wreckage it was reduced to.' Dembe stopped and waited until his employer raised his eyebrows and looked at him questioningly.

'But?' Red drawled. 'I can hear the 'but'.'

'But, I suspect, that it is not _my _appreciation that you seek.'

Red's eyes narrowed dangerously. And his mouth pinched slightly. Just momentarily tension slipped into the room and froze the atmosphere between the two men.

Then, like smoke cleared by a fresh draught from a newly opened window, it was gone, as he gave his friend a flicker of a half-smile that pulled at one side of his mouth for a fraction of a second.

'Ah,' he murmured quietly.

Their eyes met. 'Please. Be careful, my friend.' Dembe's voice was neutral and yet somehow expressed many years' worth of watchfulness and concern.

Red considered the machinery again. 'Always,' he murmured.

But was that true anymore?

_Really _true, anymore?

How far could he deny that he was letting his guard down? Just a fraction.

That things were not going as he had expected?

That _she_ was starting to . . . what?

Worry him?

Cause him _to _worry?

Affect him?

Cause him to lose his objectivity?

Because of the whole situation with Tom. And how hurt and embittered it had made her.

When he had thought about things objectively from afar, planned, plotted and manoeuvred, before he'd actually _met_ her, Elizabeth Keen had not been . . . Lizzie.

And . . . now . . . she was.

And, somehow, gradually, it had come to make a world of difference.

The flippancy he had employed in the early days had rapidly come to feel wrong when talking to her.

He could use it to his heart's delight when dealing with Cooper, Ressler, Malik and the others. But, somehow, he had found himself losing that edge with her. Had discovered that he wanted her to see him as less of a face on a wanted poster and more as an actual . . . person.

Sitting there with the mechanism in his hands, sensing Dembe's concern, he began truly to realise the limitless depth of the sinking sand beneath his feet.

For twenty odd years, emotion hadn't entered into anything in his life. He hadn't let it. He was used to being able to measure everything. It had all been precise and practical and pigeon-holed. Quantifiable and calculated and cold.

And . . . now . . . this . . .

With . . . her . . .

Wasn't. Any. Of. Those. Things.

It was . . .

What?

He certainly needed to accept the fact that his increasing connection to Lizzie could leave him exposed in a way that he hadn't been his entire criminal career. He was beginning to sail in dangerously uncharted waters and had to realise he wasn't as assured in his own world and as secure behind his own defences as he had thought he was.

Elizabeth Keen . . . Lizzie . . . was getting under his skin.

And Dembe, quietly observant as he was, had probably noticed long before Red had noticed it himself. And was probably right to be concerned.

Because tonight, when she had scathingly said, 'Have fun with your project,' and then left, he had felt . . .

Hurt?

Misunderstood?

Guilty?

He was very sure it was one, or all, of those. But, maybe, there was a hint of something else, too.

She was hurting. There had been tears in her eyes and that caused him . . . pain.

_He _had caused her to be upset because he couldn't do anything but smudge the truth and hide behind a smokescreen that left her angry, bitter and frustrated. And, therefore, he also felt angry, bitter and frustrated. At himself. And guilty. And responsible.

He was really getting in too deep.

He became aware that Dembe hadn't left the room. That he was just standing. Watching. With those large, quietly knowing eyes of his.

'This music box will help her, Dembe. _I _need to help her. I feel . . . responsible.' his mouth quirked as he paused, before he bit his lip and shook his head. He looked up. 'How can that be?'

Dembe said nothing for a long time.

Then, gently, he began, 'Because . . .'

There was a pause, as if the thoughtful, rarely spoken man was considering his words with the greatest care: as if he feared the minefield he might need to navigate with his next sentence. 'I think, it is not your head that totally rules you now, Raymond. I believe it is possible that it is your heart that tries to lead the way.'

The words were spoken without judgment or, indeed, inflection of any kind. They were just presented as a straightforward statement.

Red swallowed hard. And considered.

Looked down at the mechanism laid on the table before him.

Was Dembe right?

Was this evidence that he . . . maybe . . . still had a heart?

Somehow, he didn't dare look up and catch his bodyguard's eye.

Did he need reassess the protection around Fortress Reddington? To rebuild barriers and defences that had stood him in good stead for so long?

He touched the pieces of the music box. He had to admit, she brought out something in him that he had thought long dead, crushed beneath the grimy heel of the life he had led for the last twenty years.

Because . . .

He believed that there was no one else to protect and look out for her now.

Because Sam was gone.

Because of him.

And the guilt he felt about that was surely pushing him to want to do all that Sam would have done had he still been here.

But guilt left him vulnerable in a way that objectivity did not. Neutrality had held him in good stead for longer than he cared to remember, because he could close off any emotional involvement and shut the door on any overt connection with anyone. Dembe, Mr. Kaplan, people like that, knew where they stood: if there was a threat they knew he would move Heaven and Earth to save them, but, in the final balance, if that wasn't possible, they understood the risks and accepted the possible consequences of the life they all led together.

For a long moment he paused, as a recollection of Luli's desperate face, streaked with her terrified tears, caught him unawares; her eyes pleading with him to save her as her last few seconds in this world ticked away; before Garrick had . . . done what he'd done.

He grimaced and swallowed. Trying to deal with the sudden sharp spear of anguish that lanced through him.

It wasn't just Sam who weighed down his conscience like links in the heaviest anchor chain.

But . . . Lizzie . . . was not immersed by choice in the bleakness that was his life. She was there as a consequence of things beyond her control. And that made his responsibility to her so, so different.

And to Sam. He owed it to Sam.

He could feel nothing but savage guilt that Sam was not here. Because maybe the cancer wouldn't have killed him as quickly as everyone thought it would, so that he could have been here to provide Lizzie with some support. Who really knew?

But, regardless of his hopeless and useless hypothesising, Sam _was not _here today. Because of Red.

Which made him guilty. As Hell.

And responsible.

For Sam. To Sam.

For Lizzie. To Lizzie.

But . . .

Obligations.

Were dangerous.

He had told Sam in the hospital, 'I can only hope to love her and protect her as you have.'

But that protection made him vulnerable.

And . . . that other word . . .

Finally, he dragged his eyes from the table. And forced himself to meet Dembe's gaze. He struggled for a long moment, trying to find a response to the look of sombre understanding on his friend's face. A look that carved open his soul. Sometimes . . . actually, in truth, nearly _all _the time . . . Dembe could say more with just a look than most of the politicians Red knew could say when letting loose with their latest lengthy campaign speeches.

'Dembe, I promise I will be careful.' He tried to smile but realised that it was a weak, half-hearted affair. He decided to attempt a humourous deflection. 'Seriously, I promise I will be careful, if you will just promise to stop staring and go and find yourself a hobby. Go and buy a Meccano set or something. Anything. Just stop being so Wise Owlish and all-seeing or whatever it is you're doing right now. It makes me uncomfortable. I _promise _to be careful. I just need to sort out this music box and make certain Agent Keen is fine.'

Dembe continued to look at him reflectively.

'It's a debt,' Red insisted. 'To an old friend. That's all. A responsibility.'

Better not mention the guilt, he decided. That was probably a step too far. Too honest.

There was a long, long pause before Dembe nodded slowly as if at the conclusion of some silent internal debate and then, quietly, he turned and left the room.

Leaving Red alone with his turmoil of thoughts.

He really, _really _needed to get his bodyguard a hobby.

His head was starting to ache.

So many words.

So much emotion.

Which all needed suppressing. Stamping on. Blocking out.

Sam. Responsibility. Tom. Guilt. Lizzie. Protection.

Head. Heart. Cogs. Machines. Music.

He definitely needed to get a grip on things or he was going to be no use to anyone.

Things were slipping dangerously out of his control.

All those distracting words spinning round in his mind.

And the one word he kept avoiding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Definitely Guilt (or The Reason to Restore a 1940s Sorrento Music Box)**

**Part Two – Dembe gets a hobby and Red gives Lizzie the music box. **

**For anyone who read Part 1 when I originally posted it and thought this had dropped off the edge of the planet . . . my laptop blew up. I had to save up for a new one, then get a friend to try and retrieve the data off the old hard drive. (I know . . . back up everything. Live and learn.) Therefore, I've had to re-write quite a hefty chunk of this from scratch. I nearly cried.**

**Definite Lizzington feels. Sorry if that's not your thing. **

It was finished, and, if he did say so himself, because, apart from Dembe, there was no one else to say anything, he'd made a very fine job of things.

'What do you think?'

He became aware of a silence in the room. Dembe had left his post in the doorway and Red assumed he was playing Solitaire or some other game in the next room. Or reading. His bodyguard had a penchant for picking up random books and simply indulging. Subject matter did not appear to be of any significance, as if Dembe's enquiring mind just enjoyed the experience of being absorbed with anything involving the written word; he had been seen to be unselfconsciously reading a Mills and Boon one day and one of Reddington's own discarded copies of Marcel Proust the next.

'Dembe?'

Conscious now of odd clinking and rattling sounds through the doorway, Red left the music box and went to investigate.

And stopped on the threshold a little stunned.

Dembe looked up and smiled. 'You approve?' he queried. 'You said I should acquire a hobby.'

Red became uncomfortably aware that his mouth was hanging open in what he suspected was a somewhat unbecoming fashion.

'Ah. Quite.' With an effort he dragged his jaw back up off the floor.

'I think it's rather good,' Dembe smiled, with pride.

'I'm . . . sure it is. If I had the remotest idea . . .' Red tilted his head in bewilderment, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

'I couldn't find Meccano,' his friend explained. 'So, I got this instead. I think it's similar.'

'I . . . ' Red searched for words.

'Do you not like it?'

'I . . . suppose. I just have no idea what on God's green earth it is.' Red was defeated.

'I believe it is a Star Wars Jedi Cruiser. Of the Defender-class,' Dembe enunciated with precision and care. 'Made of Lego.'

'Ah. Really?' Red shook his head and spread his hands to express his total lack of comprehension. He had a deep feeling that some sort of pop culture referencing was required here that, somehow, he had missed out on while gun-running in the Congo, money laundering with PTA housewives in Fairfax County, or creating false identities for criminals escaping to and from absolutely any old where you cared to mention in the world. And, as such, he was at a complete loss.

Dembe continued, 'I am reliably informed . . .'

'Oh, really? By whom, may I ask?' He just couldn't keep the snarky, sarcastic edge out of his voice.

' . . . by the helpful young assistant in the model shop . . .' Dembe hardly missed a beat, '. . . that it contains wonderful features and accessories that are much admired by those who are regular participants in this hobby. For example, there are these front hatches here.' He waved his hand towards one end of his creation, before moving it to gesture towards something else that Red couldn't quite make out. 'There is also cockpit access, which, I understand, is seen as absolutely essential. I believe that to mean that the cockpit piece here lifts up on these hinges.' Dembe demonstrated the fact with a near theatrical flourish. 'It is all really quite impressive.'

Red had a sense that he was quietly sinking out of his depth. If, indeed, he wasn't in over his head already.

'In addition,' Dembe smiled happily, 'there are two escape pods that are removable from the rest of the model.' He pointed towards some part of the contraption that Red could not readily identify. 'Other features, which are apparently indispensible, include retractable landing gear and four rotating missiles. And, my friend the assistant was keen to tell me, that, as an added bonus, the set includes four miniature figures with weapons.' He completed his inventory with a satisfied nod, and added, 'I believe that I have acquired a bargain.'

Sure that he was now completely floundering, Red could do little but murmur, 'Well, if there are four . . . miniatures . . . with _weapons_ . . .then . . . it must be . . . good. I presume?'

Dembe, meanwhile, beamed with intense satisfaction and sat back studying his handiwork. 'Tomorrow, I intend to return to the shop to express my delight to the assistant and to purchase another model.'

Maybe, Red decided, he should leave Dembe's appreciation of his own building efforts for another evening.

He felt in serious need of a lie down.

As it happened, he never got the chance because, just as he turned away, he heard a knock at the door and opened it to find Lizzie standing there, looking at him in total despair.

After a brief pause, as if she had to search for words, she simply said, 'You were right.'

She looked as if all the light had gone out of her life and she had no idea how to rekindle it.

And that was all it took. Just one look at her desolation. And he felt something, deep inside, lurch and twist as he stood holding the door open; something that squeezed his heart and caused his throat to constrict, so that his 'Come in' caught a hitch on the way out and surprised him with its rasp.

She moved past him and seemed to sink onto the seat he offered, as if her legs had only just been able to hold her upright long enough to reach that spot. She seemed all pulled in on herself, tightly wrapped inside her coat, with hands shoved as deep into pockets as they would go, elbows pressed against her sides, knees pushed defensively together. Everything about her screamed at rigid control, and cried out that if she was touched she would shatter into a thousand pieces.

She sat, staring at nothing.

Saying nothing.

Doing nothing.

Except holding herself together.

Desperately concentrating on not falling apart.

And he almost wished that she would break down and cry because then he would have a clue about what to do and how to deal with things.

This desperate immobility, this tight-bound tautness, spoke of a pain even beyond what he had suspected she would feel.

But . . .

He took a shred of hope from the fact that she was_ here_.

She had come to him.

When, finally, things had broken around her, she had come . . . here.

To him.

And not . . . elsewhere.

To anyone else.

Somehow, for whatever reason, she had been drawn to him.

And for that he must be grateful and must try to respond to what was clearly her instinctive belief that he would know what to do and how to help her cope.

As he looked at her, the invisible fist that had taken hold of his heart continued to tighten its grip. And, although he had little belief in such things, he sent out a silent prayer that he would not be found wanting. It was incredible how much this had come to matter to him. How much, now that she was here, in front of him, the weight of responsibility was suffocating him.

His eyes strayed to the newly restored music box on the work bench. He hadn't truly thought through how he would actually be able to give her the machine when he had finished the restoration, but he had trusted that somehow, in some way, the Fates would be kind enough to grant him the opportunity. Because, in truth, they owed him a favour or two.

But he sensed that now was not quite the moment.

Carefully, as if treading across glass in bare feet, he moved forward to her side, and he hoped his eyes shone with the sympathy he felt as he reached out a tentative hand.

He did not touch her, somehow realising that that would be an invasion of her rigidly built defences. So, he just held out his hand; laying the foundation stone of a bridge to cross the divide she seemed to have opened up between herself and the rest of the world.

He stood, waiting with infinite patience, until she gradually seemed to become aware of his presence, as if emerging from the depths of a drug-induced stupor. Her eyes struggled to focus as if she was somewhere else, seeing something else. And he somehow knew that to speak even a single word would stab all too harshly into her flickering recovery.

And, after all, what could he say? I'm sorry? This is my fault? I understand your pain?

None of those were anywhere near adequate or, even, anywhere near completely accurate.

So, he merely waited, patiently, continuing to offer his hand, seeking permission to touch her. And, finally, she seemed to see it there and to concentrate on it, so that, after a momentary hesitation, he tilted his head and asked the question with his eyes and a careful raising of his eyebrows. And, with a weary catch of her breath she nodded in answer and granted him the consent he sought.

Gently he rested his palm against her head as he remembered doing when she sat so wounded and defenceless in The Stewmaker's chair. Then, carefully, as if she was the most fragile piece of precious porcelain, which could break beneath anything beyond the lightest pressure, he stroked it back and forth across her head in what he hoped was a soothing, comforting gesture. Just to connect to her. Just to begin to establish a line of communication, because it seemed as if she had lost that thread since standing in the doorway and admitting that he was right, and then all but stumbling across his threshold. It was as if speaking those words aloud had finally caused her connection to everything else around her to rupture.

He sensed that now all she really wanted to do was sit and hold her suffering inside where it would continue to fester and damage her.

And he knew he could not allow that to happen. It was his responsibility to help her break out of that, to bring her back to the world no matter what she would have to face. He owed it to her. He owed it to Sam. And, more and more, he owed it to himself.

After a long, quiet time, he ceased carefully brushing his hand over her hair and cautiously let his hand slip to her shoulder, where he simply left it to rest as he gently rubbed his thumb across her jacket hoping that she could feel the reassuring gesture through the material. He continued the movement until she blinked a few times and looked up at him with eyes that registered pain but gradually saw _him_.

He felt the clutching fingers that had encircled his heart lessen their stranglehold as her face dropped to one side, and she rested her cheek against the back of his hand.

And still, neither spoke a word.

Gradually, with an immense strength of will, which he could do nothing but watch and admire, she began to pull herself back from the abyss.

He gave her a careful and cautious half-smile, which he hoped expressed everything of his deeply felt support and encouragement, and his grateful thanks that she had trusted him enough to come to him when whatever had happened this evening with Tom had happened, and her world had fallen off the edge it had been teetering on for the last few weeks.

Deep inside the depths of her gaze he still saw a look that made him think of bewildered innocent animals who cannot understand why human beings will torture them for fun.

But she was fighting back.

He squeezed her shoulder ever so slightly to hold her attention, and then said, quietly, 'I have something for you.'

He felt her eyes watch him listlessly as he crossed to the bench and picked up the completed music box; he carried it across to where she sat and placed it on the table in front of her.

He looked at it as it sat in lonely and splendid magnificence. A testament to his hours of work.

And he realised that, not so very long ago, he had been nothing but the shell of a man who would not have looked beyond how she would be overwhelmed and stunned by his efforts. A man the likes of Madeline Pratt would have recognised and understood so well.

_That_ Raymond Reddington would have looked to bask in the gratitude he would expect her to surely show as she came to realise what it was he had been working on for so long. _That _man would have been waiting almost with bated breath to watch the realisation dawn as she came to see him as caring, considerate and thoughtful. _That _man would have smiled generously, as she spilled over with words of appreciation at his benevolence and looked at him gratefully with eyes that shone with guilt at how she had misunderstood him.

That selfish, smug, self-satisfied man would have laid the box in front of her as a rich prince bestows gifts on a lesser being.

Except . . .

Now . . .

As he studied the box . . .

He acknowledged to himself . . .

He wasn't that man any longer.

And he wasn't entirely certain when that man had ceased to exist.

Only . . . that he had.

His own fateful words echoed distantly through his mind: 'That's the trouble with drawing lines in the sand . . . with a breath of air they disappear.' Except, it hadn't been one gust of wind, it had been a quietly insidious creeping of the tide which had been gently smoothing the lines away. When he wasn't looking.

Slowly, and almost without notice, the water's edge had been eroding the foundations of everything he had come to believe about himself. Everything he had built himself up to be.

Until, now, as he seated himself down at her side, silently, in the near darkness, he sensed, more than he had ever sensed before, more than he had ever admitted before, that the lines were . . . blurred. At best. And, possibly, in truth, that they had disappeared altogether.

Because all that mattered to him now was Lizzie, and her broken heart and crushed emotions and shattered dreams.

Nothing else mattered.

Nothing.

Except that she could find the strength, composure and determination to carry on. And not because he needed her to in order that his plans could be fulfilled or Berlin tracked down or . . . any of that.

In the quiet of the dimly lit room all that now concerned him was that she should find something that could comfort her, because she deserved that above all things, and everything else slipped away into the shadows.

So, he sat back and quietly contemplated his handiwork.

And hoped that the music box could comfort her as he felt he could not do.

Speak to her as he felt he could not speak.

Because, for a man of so many words, at this important moment, he had absolutely none.

Sam would have known what to say. And do. Sam would have taken her in his arms and held her close, absorbing her pain. But Sam had had a right to do that. He was the one person in the world she had felt able to rely on; someone who was there to put a plaster on cut knees, bandage up other scrapes and ease much deeper wounds. But . . . Sam had had a relationship with Lizzie built up through years of love and laughter and good times, and cemented by years of help and advice through bad times.

Red had none of that. All he had was a few months of fractious mistrust and flippant misdirection, with only a sparse few moments of connection that he was sure would struggle to overcome all of that.

And yet . . .

She was here . . .

She had come to him . . .

And he _must not _fail her.

Her feet scraped against the wooden floor.

And he sensed her attention shift to the box.

There was a pause, before she asked, 'What's this?' With just an encouraging hint of dubious curiosity.

'It's a nineteen forties Sorrento music box.'

And as he said that he reached forward and lifted the lid, before releasing the catch at the side which would start it working.

And he had never hoped for anything so much as he hoped that he had done the right thing, that this would be the means to help her that would truly work. That the box could cast a spell and hold her in its magical grasp for as long as was needed. That the music would salve and begin to heal the hurt.

Because she needed it so very, very much.

And Sam was not here. Because . . .

And the responsibility and guilt he felt for that, would always feel for that, meant that he had to do something . . .

Because responsibility and guilt drove him.

And the need to protect her from hurt.

Because he had told Sam, 'I can only hope to love and protect her as you have.'

Protect.

And, once again, that other word.

That he kept pushing to the back of his mind.

That other word.

That blind-sided him with increasing frequency when he felt emotionally fraught.

As now.

The word that was fighting hard against the smug. And the selfish. And the poisoned character of the Raymond Reddington who had walked into FBI headquarters a lifetime ago.

And . . .

The cylinder began to turn . . .

Gleaming golden, even in the muted light of the room.

Polished to within an inch of its life.

Shining with his hope and desperate belief that this could be the way to ease her pain.

He was immediately caught in the simple charm of each pure chime.

As the tines struck the gleaming bells to release single perfect droplets of music.

And, in truth, he felt just a _brief_ flutter of satisfaction. Because it played perfectly.

As if it were truly brand new.

Then, as the box came to life, he sat back. And clasped his hands together in his lap. He was determined not to show his nervousness. Normally his hands would be restless. But that would be distracting to her. So he tried desperately to remain still and let her concentrate on the music.

And he didn't dare look at her. Couldn't. In case it was all wrong. In case it was all going horribly awry. In case he had failed.

He wasn't a man used to failure. And the thought that he might fail here strangled at his nerves and emotions in a manner he was almost unable to control.

This wasn't one of his daily criminal transactions that, if it fell short of expectations, would cost him a great deal of money and dent his reputation. This was far, far more important than that. He could cope with the personal disappointment when such deals went wrong. It happened more than he would ever admit to the FBI. He dealt with it. Accepted it. And moved on.

But this . . .

As he sat there, he had not felt so hopeless and so helpless in a long time.

Because he suddenly realised that if the box failed he wasn't sure what he was going to do.

After a brief moment the delicate lilt became a recognisable tune. Music was a great healer. He often sat for hours while his favourite jazz pieces flowed through his soul, gently easing whatever emotional wound he was suffering at the time.

Now, as he listened to this piece, it seemed as if the two of them were cocooned in this room; sheltered for the moment from all else.

Then, 'I know this song . . .'

Yes. And he does too. And he prays with all that remains of his blighted soul that the choice was right.

For years Sam sent letters, carefully dated, to an anonymous PO Box. Not many. But enough. They told him so much without revealing anything should they fall into the wrong hands: no return address; no names – just referring to a "she", for Lizzie, and an "I" for Sam and a "you" for Red. They often lay uncollected for months, once for over a year. But when the opportunity arose he feasted on each one and the details they revealed of Sam's and Lizzie's life together.

He learned so much. Shared their lives, long after the events that Sam described had occurred. He could never be there in person. Not even stand in the shadows and watch. But Sam's letters had given him precious glimpses into their world. Gifted him stories that he had treasured. Tales that, even now, long after the letters were gone, because he had not dared to keep them, he could recite word for word.

And some of the anecdotes had provided such gossamer connections . . . like, for example, the name of a tune.

That he had never heard since without it reminding him of Sam and her. Together.

So, all these years later, Sam's words had given him a possible way to help her.

The cylinder continued to turn and the notes began to work their charm, catching and holding them both in the moment as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

'When I was a little girl . . . I had these terrible nightmares . . .'

She faltered and he held his breath.

'Flashes of . . . fire and smoke. God, so much smoke.'

He sensed the tears begin to form as emotion choked her, just as the smoke had choked her all those years before.

'And my Dad would lay in bed with me, and hold me in his arms and hum _that _song. He'd tell me I was safe. That everything was going to be okay.'

Sitting on the swing after Sam died he had told her to tell him stories of her father. Now, in this further time of despair, she turned to him with memories of the man who had been the anchor in her life, and he felt blessed that she should feel able to trust him with these recollections.

She turned to look at him.

'You spent days building that damn thing.'

And what would once have been his moment of triumph became simply a quiet moment of grateful understanding and thankful acceptance that he _had_ done the right thing. That he _had_ found a way to reach out to her and it was not in a way that meant he was using her as a means to an end, as so much of their relationship seemed to be. It was simply reaching out a helping hand, and doing the right thing for someone you . . . cared . . . about. Because when someone you cared . . . deeply . . . about is hurting, you will do everything you can to help the pain go away.

Everything.

He let go of a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding.

Simply watched her realise the time and effort that he had put into trying to find a way to help her deal with what was happening in her life. And it gave him a deep, inner peace beyond anything that he had known for an incredibly long time. To present such a gift to someone and ask for nothing in return. When had he last done that?

He truly could not recall.

She was barely holding on.

'You knew about the song. My father. You knew I'd find out the truth. And you wanted me . . .'

And he was completely lost. Overcome by the sense that she needed him. Now. At this moment. As no one had needed him since . . . the day he had lost those who had once meant everything to him.

And as she finally crumbled . . . her lip trembling . . . tears spilling . . . he wanted so much to reach out and gently wipe them away.

But, just as he was tempted to do so, defenceless and broken, she leaned towards him and, almost unconsciously, as if in a dream, he gathered her in. Offered her a shelter in the storm that she accepted without question or murmur. As if it was the most natural thing in the world. And, if she gained a sense of peace and security, as he allowed her to rest inside the gently protective harbour of his arms, Red also found a soul-deep sense of peace.

Every hour of work he had put in had been worth it. Repaid a thousand-fold in this single precious instance.

And he heard himself murmuring Sam's words of comfort to complete her unfinished statement: '. . . To know that everything is going to be okay. You're going to be okay.'

And it seemed right and just that the words he spoke were Sam's. Because it was Sam who had shown him the way to help her. It was Sam who had chosen the tune all those years before. And it was Sam she spoke of. And somehow, despite everything, he didn't think his old friend would mind if he borrowed them now, when they were most needed once more.

The gentle tune of The Anniversary Waltz is, perhaps, the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. Each and every note resonates perfectly, like newly minted golden coins of sound that are cast upwards to then twist and turn with a wonderful richness in the air around them.

He has rarely felt such perfection and peace in any other moment in his life.

Rarely felt such a deep and inner calm and sense of rightness.

A total belief that this is how it should be.

As she relaxed against him, he felt the tension quietly leave her body; slipping away like a heavy cloak that has been unclasped and which falls unseen to the floor. She had been so taut, so stretched. Like a cable under so much pressure it had reached the point of snapping altogether under the weight.

But now, finally, . . . she rests.

Her head leaned in to his shoulder for support and he could not help but place his cheek against it, and then, almost without conscious thought, gently dust her hair with his lips.

He had had no real idea how he would do anything when this moment came, except play the music. And hope. But the words and the gestures had come unbidden and unrehearsed. As the most honest, and loving, of actions always do.

And deep down in his soul he knew that he was crossing a line he might never recover from. And yet, looking back across to the Red still standing on the other side, he realised that he didn't much care.

Lizzie needed him to hold her. To gently kiss the back of her head. To soothe her pain and reassure her. As anyone who cared for her beyond words would want to do.

But, in that moment, holding her in his arms, he truly recognised how deeply he had fallen. Realised just how far he would be willingly to go. Understood how, from this point forward, there was no looking back.

Whatever she needed. He would do.

Whatever she needed him to be. He would be.

Unreservedly. Unselfishly. Undeniably.

Because, before tonight, she was the most important thing in his world.

For many reasons.

But from tonight, he can acknowledge, silently in his soul, that, forever more, she will be the most priceless, most precious, thing in his world.

For one reason only.

And even if he can never tell her, if the moment should never come when it would be fair and right to share his feelings, . . . _he _will always know.

Now and forevermore.

And as he feels her heart beating quietly in tune with his . . .

As he feels her breathing calmly synchronised with his . . .

As he holds her body gently against his own . . .

It feels so right.

So perfect.

And so it is not just her who finds solace in this shared moment. He also finds a deep sense of contentment and restfulness that soothes a ravaged soul wounded and scarred by so much suffering.

In the shadows that hold them safe and shelter them, he finds a sense of belonging that has been lost to him for so many years.

The music slows and stops as the cylinder winds down, and she remains exactly where she is, making no effort to move away, and he hardly dares to breathe in case he should disturb this truly precious moment. He wants it to last forever.

Which, somewhere, in a tiny pinpoint of his mind, he knows is impossible.

So he draws the deepest, most careful breath he has ever taken and, closing his eyes, he paints this moment into his memory. So that it will be there forever.

But more than that; he adds the feel of her, the fragrance of her, and the sound of her restful breathing.

As he continues to hold her.

He doesn't want to give her back to the world. The world that has been so cruel to the both of them.

Because he knows that there is so much that could drive them apart. Should drive them apart. Probably will drive them apart. In the future. But he pushes those unwelcome thoughts away. Now is not the time to consider those things. He refuses to let them intrude. However true they may be, they have no place in this moment.

So, he banishes them to a place beyond the protective circle of quiet light, to somewhere in the darkness of the corners where all demons dwell.

And holds her in this precious fraction of time where their pasts evaporate, like early morning mist at the dawn of a new day.

All that matters to him now is this moment.

This now.

This. Now.

This precious now.

Red finds himself thinking, almost as if in a dream, about how far they have both travelled since the moment when she first descended the steps in the Post Office to walk across the cavernous distance of space towards where he sat. So much has happened since then, to connect them together and also to drive them apart.

But now, _right now_, they are as close as they have ever been.

She has found the safety she needs.

The help she needs.

And he . . .

Has found . . .

Something . . .

More.

But . . .

For how long will he be allowed to continue to admit to himself that he, also, needs this?

For how long will he be allowed to hold on to the fact that within his life there are wounds being soothed and healed by what he feels for her?

For how long will he be allowed to believe that he, too, is human and vulnerable and cannot exist behind a wall forever?

However long it is . . .

One thing is for sure . . .

Now . . .

And forevermore . . .

The lines in the sand have indeed been redrawn.

The distance she once accused him of keeping from the world has been compromised.

Who knows where such emotion might lead him . . . and her . . . in the future.

Who knows what that future might hold.

One thing he knows for certain . . . guilt definitely has nothing to do with the way he feels right now.

**If you have read this far . . . thank you. There are no awards. But, please know that I am touched by your perseverance.**

**And I would be grateful if you let me know what you thought. **


End file.
